


The In-Between

by vlalekat



Series: Games We Play [2]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Friendship, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, No Smut, Possibly Unrequited Love, Suicidal Thoughts, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-26 02:54:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9858911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vlalekat/pseuds/vlalekat
Summary: Paladin Danse waits in Listening Post Bravo. The Knight sent to kill him on Maxson's orders doesn't take long to get there.Takes place between chapters 10 - 11 of Games We Play.Everything belongs to Bethesda, I own nothing but my own words.





	1. Paladin

**Author's Note:**

> In writing Brotherhood, I realized I wanted to talk more about Danse because he’s just a big ol’ meatball and I love him. And yes, I’ve changed some of the dialogue, including swapping some lines around to different speakers because I think this was a good idea if a bit half-baked in the game, and it’s my fic, I’ll do what I want.

_What do you see inside the mirror?_  
_And what would you accept for an answer?_  
 _Once you figure it out_  
 _The question remains but there isn’t a doubt_

  * _Sierra Hull, “The In-Between”_



 

He’s not entirely certain how he ended up here. He’s read that stress can do funny things to the mind, can cause you to black out traumatic events or forget things you don’t want to know. Given that the Institute was clearly trying to create artificial people, it stands to reason that his inorganic brain would react the same as an organic one.

Whatever the reason, the last thing he remembers before waking up this morning is two knights approaching him in the missile silo, weapons drawn, calling him a synth. And then – everything is blank.

He hopes he didn’t hurt them. Danse might be a monster, an abomination, but he’s not a traitor. He wonders what M7-97 was – or is.

Somewhere in the struggle he obtained a file with his picture in it, or at least the face of the synth he used to be. Inside the file is a single sheet of paper. Half of the information is redacted, blacked out, but the important things remain: Institute designation M7-97. Some scientific speak about the markers in his DNA that identified him. Orders to bring him in to report to Elder Maxson.

It doesn’t say that he’s to be eliminated, but why else would they bring him in? He wishes he could remember running. He wishes he could go back and try again.

Maxson was going to have him exterminated; he doesn’t doubt that. But he had the chance to go to his death with honor and instead he panicked, some animal instinct taking him over and sending him to ground like a mole rat.

He sits in the bunker, on the floor of the back room, his laser pistol in his hand, and debates putting the barrel in his mouth and just ending all of this. It’d be so easy – just pull the trigger and he wouldn’t have to debate this with himself. And yet –

Why did they program this desire in him to live? To preserve his own worthless life at all costs? What purpose does it serve?

He’s spent two days in this bunker, and he still can’t figure out if he’s the monster, or if it’s them, the scientists who made him.

Then again, there’s enough atrocity to spread around.

There’s the ding of the elevator and he startles, the hand that holds the gun dropping to his side. He looks at it for a long moment then sets it down gently on the damp floor. Whoever has come down here is undoubtedly here for him.

To _kill_ him.

  
His knees shake as he stands. He wants to go to his death willingly, bravely – it’s his salvation, his chance to uphold the Brotherhood’s ideals even when it means his own personal sacrifice. But it’s not going out in a blaze of glory that waits behind the wall, and maybe that’s why his feet don’t want to cooperate. No, what waits for him is execution, the ignoble death of a traitor.

His very existence marks him an enemy and selfishly, all he can think is _it’s not fair._

The protectron he turned on to keep him safe while he figured out what to do begin shooting the moment whoever it is steps off the elevator. He stands still, desperately wanting to grab his pistol and join the firefight, to defend himself even as he knows that it’s fruitless.

If one Brotherhood solider is hurt because of him, he’s merely proving himself an abomination. It’s an impossible situation, and so he stands as still as he can and listens as the protectron drops heavily to the ground, the whine of metal on concrete alerting him that it’s out of commission. The turret starts up, the rapid blasts of laser fire causing whoever it is to dodge back behind a pillar with a curse.

He knows the voice, but Danse can’t figure out who it is, not right now. All he seems capable of is standing, still and quiet and clenching and unclenching his hands. He hopes his death will be quick, with no long, drawn-out build-up to it.

He wonders what happens to synths when they die.

There’s an explosion behind him that makes the glass window at his back vibrate. For nearly a minute his ears can’t seem to recover from the sound of the blast. Then he hears a shower of sparks still falling to the floor, and quiet footsteps approaching him. They come through the cavern and into the door, and when he turns, there’s Momoko O’Sullivan.

Of course Maxson sent her, the prick.

Danse flinches as his own disloyal thought, at thinking so harshly of the man who’s been his friend, but then again, that man sent someone to kill him. Even if he does deserve to die because of his origin – and Danse doesn’t inherently disagree with the logic of that – the fact that a friend of his, his commanding officer, made the order and didn’t do it himself still grates.

The way she looks at him, the lids of her eyes are heavy, the lashes creating dark shadows across the tops of her cheeks – there’s a dull ache in his chest that he doesn’t recognize. A vicious, traitorous impulse takes him; though it’s wrong, he wishes she would spare him, although whether it’s because he’s afraid to die or because he doesn’t want her to have to kill him, he couldn’t say.

“I’m not surprised Maxson sent you. He never liked to do the dirty work himself,” he says with a sigh. The words hang heavily between them. Of course Maxson did it this way; it’s exactly the type of loyalty test the Elder is fond of. If she kills him, then she’s worthy of her rank, or maybe his. And if she doesn’t –

Danse won’t entertain that thought. He can’t. It’s too dizzying to think of life untethered to the Brotherhood. He doesn’t even remember a life before he was an Aspirant. Did he even have one?

Knight O’Sullivan stands before him, her small frame bulky in her combat armor. The Brotherhood symbol on her chest seems too big for how small her armor is, how tight the back must be to keep her safe. For such a tiny woman she’s always been so fearless, so willing to charge in.

He hopes she’ll make it fast, but it appears she has other ideas. She looks up at him, and for a moment Danse would swear he sees a tear in one eye, but maybe it’s just a trick of the light because when she blinks it’s gone.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

There it is, the question he can’t answer. Or at least, one of many. Her face is so confused, so betrayed, and part of him wants to lie, to tell her he was up to something nefarious. It would make things easier for her, he thinks.

But he wasn’t built to lie.

“Because…” he starts, swallows. The lump in his throat makes it difficult to speak. “I didn’t know. Until Quinlan got that listing decoded, I thought synths were the enemy.”

_I still think they’re the enemy. Or maybe they’re – we’re – all just misunderstood._

“I never expected to hear that I was one of them.” O’Sullivan nods at this, her small face blank as she digests his words. Her eyes don’t move from him and she’s coiled tight as a spring, but her weapon is holstered and he wonders again what’s happening here.

He doesn’t know why he’s telling her this, except that he wants someone to know. He wants to leave something behind, some part of the truth.

Someone need to know that he would never betray the Brotherhood willingly. Maxson should be the one here, but of course he isn’t, and much as he wishes it wasn’t her, his protégé, he also trusts her to bear that message.

“’If it wasn’t for Haylen, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation,” O’Sullivan says, her voice thoughtful. “I had no idea how to find you.”

Enough time is wasted, he thinks. He’ll never be glad to die, not like this, but at least he’s told someone the truth. He’s sorry she’s got to be the one to deliver the end, but at the same time – he’s glad he was able to tell her. After all they’ve been through, if it can’t be Maxson, he’s glad it’s her. So he asks the question he already knows the answer to.

“So what are your orders? Does Maxson even want me alive?”

The mad giggle that escapes her is humorless, manic. He knows that she doesn’t want to do this – who would want to kill their brother-in-arms? – but the lunatic sound of it drives the point home. That ache in his chest again, the tightness and the misery – return.

It should be Maxson. It would have been right.

“Of course,” he says, giving her a moment to breathe. O’Sullivan claps a hand over her mouth and the giggle dies slowly, creeping around her hand. It takes a long time for her to settle, and when she does, he can see the strain on her face. He hates himself for doing this to her.

“No,” she agrees when she’s finally calm again, and though he knew the answer before the pain of it is still visceral, hateful. “I don’t know what to do,” she says.

He won’t allow himself to hope. “It seems obvious to me.”

The image of Cutler, misshapen and massive and vicious after the FEV injection dances behind Danse’s eyes. Yes, it is obvious. He knows where this road leads.

Unbidden, his body sighs, as if it knows how precious few breaths are left to it. Does he even need to breathe? There’s so much he’ll never know, so many questions that will go unanswered. Still, he can’t let this drag out.

“Look, I’m not oblivious to the fact that we’re good friends and this must be very difficult for you. I wish Maxson had sent someone else.” A half-truth; maybe he has learned to lie. He’s grateful it’s her, that he could tell her that he didn’t know, that he could unburden himself of the truth before it’s lost forever.

But he hates his commanding officer for doing this to her. Her eyes – usually so hard to read – are deep in her face.  The strain of this must be killing her.

“I’m a synth,” he says, softening his voice, the truth of it sinking in for what feels like the first time. “Which means that I must be destroyed.”

She looks away from him, eyes casting around the room as if there might be some magic out, a secret tunnel that might take her away from him, away from this conversation and her duty to the Brotherhood. He gentles his voice still further, hoping the tone doesn’t muddy the message. He finds now he wants to just get this over with.

“If you disobey your orders, you’re not only betraying Maxson, you’re betraying the Brotherhood of Steel and everything it stands for. Synths –“ he swallows. “Synths can’t be trusted. Machines were never meant to make their own decisions.”

It’s true, his blood thrums in his veins. It’s true. It’s why he’s always been so good at taking orders. It’s why he’s trying to convince her to kill him and not running deeper into the wilds of the Commonwealth, or heading north where he might be safe.

“They need to be controlled.”

She looks back at him, her eyes flashing, and this time he knows he can see tears in her eyes. Her fists, held tightly at her sides, clench and unclench. Her nostrils flare as if she’s angry, and Danse feels a flickering in his gut. He’s almost got her there. If he can just hit her where it hurts, with the knowledge of how her world was lost, maybe they can be finished and she can put a bullet in his head and at last he can sleep.

If he can just make her hate him.

“Technology that’s run amuck is what brought the entire world to its knees and humanity to the brink of extinction. I need to be the example. Not the exception.”

One tear catches the light and makes its way slowly down her cheek, glistening against her pale skin. Down here, in the flickering fluorescent light and dark shadow of the cave behind her, she looks so impossibly small.

She pulls her gun out and he lets out a sigh, though whether he’s feeling relief or fear, he doesn’t know.

Maybe it doesn’t matter.

O’Sullivan looks at the gun in her hand as if she doesn’t know where it came from. Stares at it, blankly, for so long that Danse finds himself wondering what she’s going to do with it. Then she releases the cartridge at the bottom and lets the ammo fall out, onto the floor. The bullets drop with dull clinks against the floor and his traitorous heart begins to speed up.

“I won’t do it,” she says softly, so softly he almost can’t hear her. He takes an involuntary step forward, and she takes one back, equalizing the distance between them again. She re-holsters her weapon and speaks again, more loudly this time. “I won’t do it. The empathy you’re showing me right now – that’s a human emotion.”

She looks back up at him again, and her face is calm. Serene.

He can’t let her do this. It’s treason.

Danse takes another step forward and she doesn’t move. He crosses the distance between them, one step at a time, and he can feel how she wants to run but she stands firm, quivering as though she might shatter. He takes her hand between his own, and he can feel the pulse of her heart beat in her thumb. Her shaking slows, then stops, and he meets her eyes.

“I appreciate what you’re trying to do.” He has to make her understand, before he starts to think this insane idea might work. He has to be put down before he turns tail and runs again like the coward he is.

Before he starts to think he belongs here, an organic machine that exists in a half-state between life and death, where he has no business being.

He has to lie, and so he does.

“I’ve made my decision,” he says, still looking deeply into her eyes. All he sees is himself, a hateful and terrible abomination, reflected in her eyes.

“I’m ready to accept the consequences of my true identity. Of…what I am.”

Her eyes bore into his like two black holes, sucking him in a bit at a time, and he’s powerless to look away.

“Well I’m not,” she says, her voice very quiet but still firm. He lets out a rush of hot air, frustrated. She snatches her hand back from him and turns as if she’s going to leave, as if this will somehow settle things.

“Don’t you understand?” His hand is on her shoulder and he wrenches it, turning her back to face him, and when she does her eyes are blazing, hot and furious. “Maxson’s ordered you to execute me, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to stand in your way.”

“You think this is right?” O’Sullivan lifts her hands and hits him in the chest, hard, harder than he thought such a small woman could hit. She pulls back, forms her hands into fists and hits him again, even harder this time, and he’d be worried about explaining the bruises if he expected to live through the next hour. Telling people a woman her size hit him this hard would definitely get him made fun of around the barracks.

“No,” he says, wishing he’d said yes. Maybe it would make her finally do this thing, end this tragic drama that he’d forever be known for.

“Exactly,” O’Sullivan looks triumphant. “The Brotherhood – they’re wrong, Danse.” Her hands drop to her sides, still clenched in fists. She’s so tightly wound she looks like she might explode. “You’re the most – the – you’re so dedicated to their ideals you’re willing to be executed in this fucking bunker and they’re actually willing to let that happen? To make it happen?”

He doesn’t have an answer for that, and it wouldn’t matter anyway because she’s on a tear now, out of control, ripping the chest piece from her body and tossing it to the ground in a scramble of leather straps and metal buckles. She slices one of her fingers on the buckle but doesn’t seem to notice.

“If the Brotherhood really believes in executing its own soldiers for things beyond their control, I don’t want to be a part of it,” she says, and the crazy thing is, Danse believes her. The chest piece lands face down on the floor, and she pushes her foot into it, scuffing the Brotherhood’s symbol across the concrete with a loud scrape that hurts his ears.

“You can’t – you can’t be serious –“

“So you’re a synth,” she says, her voice calming. “I just found out my son is the goddamn director of the  Institute, Danse. So if you’re an abomination, what the hell does that make me?”

This was…not the way this was supposed to go. He opens his mouth once and closes it, then does it again, and the third time he realizes he looks like a fish and keeps it closed, gritting his teeth together tightly.

Because she’s right. If he’s a monster created in a lab, what of the family that helped make that possible? Even if –

“But you don’t have any control over that!”

“That’s my point, you self-sacrificing asshole.” O’Sullivan’s fists are up again, and they hit him square in the chest, in the same places she hit him before, and the force and surprise of it knocks him back a step. “It’s not your fault you were made in the Institute, and it’s not my fault my baby was stolen and grew up to be – to be –“

She doesn’t finish the thought but instead lets out an anguished cry that makes him hurt again. Danse swallows, trying to keep himself on task, trying to keep from losing it entirely.

It sounds so tempting, so alluring to believe that he deserves to live just because he had no say in what he is. And yet he knows where that thinking leads.

“If you won’t do it…” he looks meaningfully at his discarded laser pistol, behind her on the floor, and O’Sullivan’s eyes follow his gaze. There’s that flash of fire on her face again, and she darts around, scooping it up and holding it disdainfully in one hand.

“Like hell you will,” she says, her voice shaking.

“I can’t believe you’d risk your life just to keep something like me wandering this planet. You – I – we don’t even know what I’m capable of. What my programming is.”

“You really don’t know?” She hits him again, and with the pistol in her hand it really hurts this time. He finds himself wishing she would just kill him already so that he wouldn’t have to deal with the reality that a tiny woman gave him a bruised rib.

Instead, he shakes his head, because it’s true: he doesn’t know. He can’t think of one good reason for her to risk everything – her mission, her very existence – just for him.

“I’ve already lost everything,” she says, and she reaches up to grip his chin between two deceptively strong fingers, forcing his eyes to look at her. He can see the truth reflected in her eyes; she’s entirely alone. “My family, my entire world – it’s all gone and it’ll never be back. My son is a grown man, and he –“

O’Sullivan takes a deep breath, so deep it makes her look taller for a moment before she deflates back to her regular stature.

“You’re my friend. I can’t lose that. I can’t lose you, not when I could do something to save you.”

He’s about to answer, but she steamrolls over him, her voice louder than his thoughts.

“You’ve risked your lives for everyone, Danse. You’ve done everything for them, you’ve given everything – you’re willing to die here for them. You’re more human than Maxson will ever be, no matter where you came from.”

There’s the feeling of something inside him breaking. He doesn’t believe she’s right, but her conviction is wearing him down. If nothing else, he’s too tired to keep fighting with her.

Maybe after she’s gone he’ll just take care of the orders himself anyway.

He doesn’t dare tell her that, though. Instead he reaches up and pulls off the holotags from around his neck. She opens her hand and he presses them into her palm, curling her fingers around them.

“Give these to Maxson,” he says. He doesn’t know what he’s doing; it’s like flying, or falling. “Tell him you completed your mission and he’ll believe you.”

The relief on O’Sullivan’s face is amazing; he blinks in the radiance of her eyes. Is this what she looked like before the bombs fell, so open and happy? What a change. He’s not sure he’s ever seen her really smile; her usual expressions are a collection of grim smirks and set jaws.

“Thank you.” She turns, takes four steps, then twists back around to fix him with a glare, the expression one that he feels more comfortable with. This is the type of face he’s used to from her.

“I’ll be keeping this,” she says, waving his laser pistol. “So you don’t get any ideas.”

Danse smiles without meaning to, a real smile that seems to start on his face before his brain tells his body to do it. She has no idea the number of ways he can kill himself down here after she’s gone – there’s the protectrons, the turrets – yes, she disabled them but he can always fix them. There’s a sturdy beam overhead, he could hang himself.

North of them is the Revere Satellite Array, which is probably still overrun with muties. It wouldn’t be a pleasant way to go, but it’d be easy enough to walk in there and let them mow him down. Maybe he’d get lucky and get blown up by a suicider –

Yes, there’s plenty of ways to go, but somehow she’s gotten into his brain, and as she walks back through the main room of the bunker and the elevator doors close behind her, he thinks he won’t be using any of them.


	2. Elder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a hard time getting into this at first as I’ll admit I’m not Maxson’s biggest fan. I hope the hard work I put into this paid off and you enjoy. :)

 

 _22 years with so much to learn -_  
_Too young to crash, but not to get burned._  
 _I may not know much, but this much I do:_  
 _Don’t let what’s between get the best of you_

  * _Sierra Hull, “The In-Between”_



 

Maxson knew from the beginning that the only way he was going to find Danse was if he got someone else to lead him to the man. Synth. _Thing._

Knight O’Sullivan had been the obvious choice; the two of them have been thick as thieves since she joined up. And with her connection to the Institute, it’s no wonder – it all seems to clear now. She must be the abomination’s handler, and that’s why he – _it_ – was so adamant about her signing up. She’d said she didn’t know anything about it, but Maxson had no doubt that she was lying. He still doesn’t. Why would she tell the truth when she could just collect her rogue synth and be on her way?

Still, following her was the most reasonable plan he could come up with, and Maxson has no doubt it’ll pay out in spades.  The best way to find the coward – the _traitor_ – was through someone it trusted, and that clearly wasn’t him.

He isn’t sure if he feels more betrayed by the reality of who Danse is or by the fact that the thing didn’t confide in him. It’s a ridiculous feeling but there’s no denying it, at least not to himself.

The whole ride from the Prydwen to the blinking spot on the map where O’Sullivan’s tracking beacon leads, he has a burning feeling in his chest and a cramp in his gut, as though someone fed him sour Brahmin milk or undercooked chicken. His skin broils inside his heavy coat, but when he takes it off briefly, he shivers with nervous sweat. The stink of it rolls off him, so he puts it back on to mask the smell before the pilot notices.

_Is this heartbreak?_

Maxson has never been a nervous man, and he hates that he’s apparently become one now. This must be what treachery does to you.

At the thought of the things he’s been imagining – the _feelings_ the abomination woke in him – the bile rises hot and sour in the back of his throat, and he swallows harshly, forcing it back down. He won’t vomit over the open side of the vertibird like a nervous recruit. He won’t.

 Arthur won’t think about that night at the forecastle of the Prydwen, some two weeks back. He won’t think about the way Danse stepped close to him, and the way his own traitorous heart had beat faster at the thought of the other man’s bulk against his own. The way the heat of Danse’s body had rolled off him even in the February chill of the Commonwealth, even with the wind whipping around them and out to sea. He’d felt Danse’s hand brush his own as he stepped past Arthur and made his way to bed, and it was electric and alluring and terrifying all at once.

He’d wanted to chase after Danse, to pursue that illicit sensation, to press his body against the steel wall of the ship and crush their lips together, but instead he’d watched him go, clenching the rail between his fingers.

The vertibird wavers in the air, making the final approach towards O’Sullivan’s blinking light, and Maxson feels himself becoming the Elder again. He reaches into his coat and takes a nip from the flask of whiskey in there, then another. He debates having a third and decides in favor of it, and then stows the small steel bottle away as the vertibird sets down on the helipad up the hill.

Elder Maxson is unsteady on his feet when he descends from the bird to the cracked pavement below. If the pilot notices, she doesn’t say anything; she just gives him a curt nod and starts fiddling idly with the controls in the center console. Arthur isn’t sure if she’s actually doing anything productive or not, and decides it doesn’t matter.

At the top of the incline, he stops for a moment. Behind him the sun is setting, a brilliant display of gold and violet splayed across the sky. How easy it would be to go back, to pretend he’d never been here. He could go back to the Prydwen and wait for O’Sullivan to come back.

He could take whatever she says at face value and never have to know the truth.

Still, some part of him knows that he owes it to Danse and to the – the _connection_ he feels to the man, hateful and twisted though it is now. He has to see this through, even if he knows deep in his heart that he could never be the one to pull the trigger.

Arthur stands at the crest of the hill, counting the second until he’s calm and curling his fingers so far into his palms that the nails bite. He stares at the clouds, at the lavender outlines on the bottoms of them, at the salmon-pink ridges of the hills to the west. He counts, one one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand, until he feels like he can take another step forward.

And another. Another.

He’s debating with himself whether he can really go into the building – he should, he knows he should, he gave the order and given everything Danse has done, doesn’t he owe the man that much? – when the elevator dings and there’s the sound of footsteps.

One pair of feet, from the sound of it.

He swallows, and then O’Sullivan walks through the door.

Alone.

O’Sullivan stares at him, and he glares at her. A pair of dog tags dangle from one of her hands, and she takes one step forward, then another.

“You followed me,” she says, and the disgust in her voice hits Maxson as hard as a ton of bricks.

“I couldn’t be sure you would follow orders,” he says, but they both know it’s weak. Her stare is impassive, both blank and accusatory, as if she’s stripped him down to the essentials, can see deep inside the pit of him and isn’t particularly impressed.

Knowing what’s in his heart, Maxson isn’t sure how impressed he is with himself, either.

“Here,” she says, thrusting out the hand that holds the dog tags, and the pain that cuts through him is as startling as it is visceral; some part of him genuinely didn’t think she’d go through with it, and despite the fact that he gave the order he hates her for going through with it.

He doesn’t know what else he could have done, and yet – this is not what he wanted.

The edges of the holotags are sharp as Maxson wraps his fingers around them, and he wonders if anyone will notice if he wears Danse’s tags with his own, next to his heart. It’s probably not fair to the Paladin, probably not what the machine would have wanted, but –

The elevator dings again, and there’s the sound of the doors sliding open, the rusty screech of one of them. Maxson looks over at O’Sullivan, who’s frozen in place. He doesn’t know her well, but he knows the look of guilt that she wears well; it’s the same expression Squire Brant wore when Arthur caught him stealing sweet rolls from the kitchen. It’s the look Scribe Marquette wore when it came out she’d been fucking a ghoul. It’s the look people wear when they’ve been caught doing something wrong.

Or in this case, when they’ve been caught not doing right.

It’s confirmed for him when Danse comes around the corner and O’Sullivan doesn’t move, just stands straighter, setting her jaw in a determined way and meeting Maxson’s eyes in an unspoken challenge.

He’s not sure what’s stronger – the relief he feels at seeing Danse come around the corner, or the sick feeling in his gut when he thinks of the way he’d smelled that night, of grease and sweat and salt from the sea air.

“How dare you betray the Brotherhood?” _How dare you betray me,_ is what he wants to ask, but he doesn’t. Instead of looking at O’Sullivan’s mutinous glare he turns back to Danse, to the abomination behind her. He tries not to focus on the quirk of Danse’s eyebrow when he speaks and instead think of the mechanical heart that beats within his flesh.

“It’s not her fault, it’s mine.” Danse, ever the perfect soldier, tries to step in front of O’Sullivan. She, in turn, steps in front of him, and as they come closer to him – the abomination and his foolhardy protector – Maxson can feel the torment of it all building up inside him, tight and coiling as a spring ready to pop, and he practically bursts in his frustration and the duplicity of it all.

“I’ll deal with you in a moment,” he barks at Danse, and nearly flinches with the synth stands down. _But of course he did,_ the hateful and nagging voice inside him says, _he’s meant to be controlled. He’ll do whatever you say. No matter how you feel about him, he’s still just a machine._

“Knight,” he addresses O’Sullivan, desperate to quiet the voice in his head that demands blood. “Why has this…this _thing_ not been destroyed?”

The look Danse gives him over O’Sullivan’s shoulder makes his gut turn into knots again, cramping and aching, and Maxson longs to leave, to fly up in the vertibird and look down on the Commonwealth. The people would be the size of ants, he thinks, and he could take another drink from his flask, and another and another and another until he could forget this whole thing.

But like a grotesque, predestined event, this whole thing has already been put into motion. The scene must play out.

He knows synths have no free will – or at least they shouldn’t – but for the first time he wonders at himself. If he wants to, he should be able to turn around, climb into the vertibird, and fly back to the Prydwen, where he would drink himself into a blackout.

So why is he still standing here, with O’Sullivan staring at him so viciously? If he can do whatever he wants, if he’s in charge of his own destiny, why hasn’t he closed the distance and pressed Danse’s lips against his own, as he dreamed of?

O’Sullivan is the one who pulls him out of the spiral of his own thoughts. “He’s not a ‘thing,’” she says simply, and just like that the light goes on for him. Maxson looks past her again, at the way Danse nods slightly, at the grateful look in his eyes. He. His. He is a person, however he was made, and for a glimmering second Arthur can see that, can feel the certainty the knight before him exudes, can understand why his orders were wrong.

It’s dizzying; it’s freeing. He’s liberated; he’s petrified.

“He’s one of your best men.” She’s right. She’s _right,_ and it’s so simple – why didn’t he see it before?

Then just like that, it’s gone. The memory comes to him again, the one that keeps him up at night; Sarah Lyons lying dead on the ground and the synth above her, its smile never reaching its dark eyes. The whispers of the Railroad, and how they brought the abominations down to the Capital wasteland to free them from bondage, as if machines had any business taking care of themselves. The knowledge that he needed to free them all from the threat of synthetic humans, of the horror that mankind had wrought, was still turning loose upon itself.

Arthur can feel the situation slipping out of his control, and it scares him. He’s not used to not being in charge.

“Have you taken leave of your senses?” The voice that comes out of him is even more savage than his usual growl; it’s a hiss, an accusation. “’Danse’ isn’t a man. It’s a machine, an automaton created by the Institute.”

He digs in, he forces himself to dredge up the way he felt when Quinlan broke the news to him.

_You can’t trust a machine._

“It wasn’t born from the womb of a loving mother, it was grown within the cold confines of a laboratory.” Again, instead of seeing Danse he sees the synth that killed Sarah Lyons again; he sees the way her head looked, ripped off her shoulders and eyes staring blankly at nothing. The stain the blood made on the concrete floor. The howl that came out of his as he watched her die, as he launched himself on the synth in a flurry of fists, despite the fact that he was unarmed.

Arthur blinks and looks at Danse, meeting the synth’s eyes. For a glittering moment he thinks he sees understanding in Danse’s eyes, and not the sympathy that comes with knowing why someone has done something. No, what he thinks he sees is something more, some greater compassion. He thinks he sees the memory of that night in the forecastle, of the spark that passed from Danse’s skin to his own when their hands brushed.

It thrills him; it makes him sick.

“Flesh is flesh. Machine is machine.” He supposes he’s technically talking to O’Sullivan, but he can’t take his eyes off Danse. There’s an understanding here, too; the Paladin’s eyebrows wilt and even his shoulders slump a little, ruining his usually perfect posture. “The two were never meant to intertwine.”

The lump in Maxson’s throat is the size and consistency of a Corvega. When he tries to swallow it seems impossible, and yet Danse still seems…resigned.

Somehow, Arthur thought he’d fight more for his own life.

“How can you say this about me?” Danse pulls himself together, his shoulders broadening as he stands straighter, and he’s right. Arthur knows he’s right, and yet –

O’Sullivan seems to fade into the background; around them, twilight has fallen and the night is silent. Maxson wonders briefly how loud they’re being, wonders if the vertibird pilot can hear them. He wonders if she’ll be gossiping the moment they’re back on the ship.

“You’re the physical embodiment of what we hate most: technology that’s gone too far.” He wants to sound apologetic, to help Danse understand, but somehow his voice has become _more_ strident, _more_ angry, _more_ vengeful. He knows he should be trying harder to explain, to be empathetic even, but the longer this goes on the more he doubts himself and his orders. The more he wants to cross the distance between him and the synth with long strides and find out what he – _it_ – feels like under its uniform.

And this feeling cannot stand. Not now that he knows what Danse is.

He’s ranting now, barely aware of what he’s saying, of anything more than the feeling that he’s spiraling out of control; he’s spinning above the earth, watching the three of them stuck in this disgusting little drama, and more than anything he wants to go back to three days ago, when he found out the truth and do something – anything – differently.

He want to go back and give Danse time to explain. He wants to be the one to set out and find him.

But now here they are, and there’s no going back; there’s no starting over, no matter the flutter in his chest when Danse looks at him.

“You’re comparing Danse to a nuclear bomb?” The amusement on O’Sullivan’s face is blatant, insulting. He’s never wanted to punch a woman so much as he wants to right now, and all for the slight arch of her eyebrow, the way she taunts him with her crooked smirk.

It enrages him.

“This machine might not be a nuclear bomb,” he admits, digging his heels in anyway, “but its goal is exactly the same.”

He doesn’t believe it, not entirely. It’s hard to imagine Danse of all people trying to destroy humanity. The synth was right about one thing – he can’t really picture Danse trying to lay waste to everything before him, not after all he’s done. Not after the way he’s upheld the Brotherhood’s ideals.

Yet there’s still the betrayal eating him alive; how would Danse have made it to the Capital wasteland and into the Brotherhood if he hadn’t been sent? If he wasn’t doing the bidding of the Institute, infiltrating their ranks to discover their secrets, their purpose – he wouldn’t be here. Maxson is sure of it, and so he has to double-down. He has to insist; the thing must be destroyed before whatever it knows goes too far.

“How can you trust the word of a machine that thinks it’s alive?” He directs this question to O’Sullivan, but he can see Danse nod out of the corner of his eye, and part of him aches to know that all this is happening to him, synth or no.

If only it had been someone else. _Anyone_ else.

“It’s true,” Danse says, cutting into Maxson’s rant, and he shuts his own mouth in surprise. “’I was built within the confines of a laboratory, and some of my memories aren’t my own. But when I saw my brothers dying at my feet, I felt sorrow.”

The ache in his chest expands into a heaviness down Maxson’s arms, tingling in his fingers.

“When I defeated an enemy of the Brotherhood, I felt pride.” Maxson feels it too, just from the sound of Danse’s voice, the residual emotion in it, and with it comes a twist in his intestines. “And when I heard your speech about saving the Commonwealth, I felt hope.”

Arthur closes his eyes, bites the inside of one of his lips. There’s pain, and the metallic taste of blood on his tongue, but none of this is enough to distract him from the wrenching misery in his chest, the feeling that he’s fucked up something so completely he may never recover. He wonders idly if Sarah ever felt this way.

“I thought I was _human,_ Arthur.”

It’s the use of his name – his birth name, not his family name, not his rank – that breaks him down completely. If he was being honest with himself, he’d admit he’s dreamed of Danse calling that for so long – months, or maybe years, or maybe forever – but instead all he can manage is to admit the yearning that pulls at him, the desire to step forward and wrap his arms around the synth. He wants so much – he sees the goodness in the man, whatever his origin – and yet it feels like the script has already been written.

The story has been told, and they’re just playing it out.

Maxson swallows again, lets out of a puff of air and looks up at Danse. He keeps thinking if he looks at the man hard enough he’ll see metal and plastic, but all he finds is skin and hair and the shape of bone in flesh. He’s giddy, trying to wrap his head around this whole thing, and not in a good way.

“I’ve done absolutely nothing to betray your trust,” Danse says, and Maxson knows it’s true. “And I never will.”

Maxson wants to walk over, take the synth’s hand in his own, forgive him for the reality of his existence. But somehow he can’t move. Somehow, he’s stuck to the ground, his legs like tree limbs, stiff and unyielding.

“It’s too late for that now,” the words come spilling from his mouth, even though part of him wants to take them back. Again he has the feeling of things happening because they’ve been decided; he doesn’t want to do this, and yet he does. “The Institute has foolishly chosen to grant you life.”

He looks at Danse carefully, at the way the man’s legs look inside his uniform. The orange and gray jumpsuit clings to the muscles, and Arthur imagines he can see ripples where the curls of hair form against the taut flesh, although that’s likely just fantasy.

“You simply should not exist.” He doesn’t mean it, or maybe he does. No matter how he feels about it, it breaks his heart to see Danse’s crestfallen face at the words.

“It’s alright,” Danse says to O’Sullivan, and Maxson starts; he’s forgotten she’s there. “We…we did our best.”

“I won’t do it,” O’Sullivan says, and she steps between Danse and Maxson, all four-foot and ten inches of her. Even with the combat armor she’s narrow as a reed and offers no actual protection, but the meaning of her gesture is clear, and Arthur finds that some small part of him is relieved.

She may not realize it, but she’s given him an out. He can hardly kill both of them.

“Whether he’s human or not,” the woman says, meeting his eyes and holding him with the force of her dark, strident gaze. “Danse saved the lives of countless Brotherhood soldiers. Now it’s time you saved his.”

He doesn’t disagree; inside – deep, _deep_ inside – some part of Maxson is ready to kiss her for what she’s saying. She’s right, and he knows it, and he’s immeasurably grateful for the chance to back out of this.

He’s so glad that it was her that he sent for this mission. Rhys would have killed him despite any misgivings; Rodriguez wouldn’t have even felt any.

There’s a smile that plays across his face as he looks from Danse to O’Sullivan. Not very professional, but the relief he feels is so genuine, so palpable, that Maxson doesn’t dare fight it any more. All he wants now – the most he can possibly deserve, and really he should be facing much worse – is to go back to his quarters and drink until he doesn’t remember this anymore.

“Allowing Danse to live undermines everything the Brotherhood stands for,” he says, and O’Sullivan nods with a sick smile. “Yet you insist he stays alive.”

“What can I say?” She slides the holotags from under her uniform, over her head, and tosses them into the dirt at his feet. Maxson looks at them dispassionately; they glow blue and white on the ground. Effective as she is, he finds he won’t miss her. “I’m done with the Brotherhood.”

“As far as I’m concerned, you’re dead,” he says to her, and turns to meet Danse’s eyes. For a moment, the synth’s steady gaze makes him waver, but he crushes his fingers into a bruising fist and counts again.

One one-thousand. Two one-thousand. Three one-thousand.

“You _both_ are.”

He’s gone in a moment, unwilling – unable? – to finish the conversation with them. It isn’t until he’s in the bird, high above the ground and looking down at trees the size of broccoli that he realizes he’s still holding Danse’s holotags in one hand. There’s a snag on one side of one that catches his hand, and Maxson can feel a rip in the skin there, the wet prickle of blood. He should check it, but he’s shaking too hard and he keeps hearing Danse call him Arthur, so instead he instructs the pilot to run them back to the Prydwen. He takes a sip from his flask, and wishes things were different.


	3. Outcast

 

_I am but a changing chord,_  
_And life is a hanging sharp-edged sword._  
_Over or under the wall -_  
_When you’re in between you’re nowhere at all_

  * _Sierra Hull, “The In-Between”_



 

Danse spends most of the next day at a loss. Somehow, the knowledge that he’s a pariah is worse than when he thought he was going to be executed. He’s never felt more like a traitor than he did when Maxson called him one to his face, and the feeling _lingers._ He can feel it in the heaviness of his feet as he tries to go about the business of foraging food and scavenging water; it drags him back to his bedroll between these tasks, and he lies between sleep and wakefulness whenever he isn’t half-heartedly fueling the mistake that is his body.

That body seems to resent his continued existence; his heart pounds forcefully, as if it could drive the blood through the walls of his veins and kill him itself. He’s dizzy, the edges of his vision fuzzy, and there’s a silent pounding in his ears.

The whole time, O’Sullivan doesn’t leave his side. She’s there when he rises wearily to relieve himself. She prepares food for him and though she’s no cook – it’s little more than opening cans and handing him a fork – she watches him through each mechanical bite. When he crashes back to the flat and uncomfortable bedroll in the corner, she covers him so he won’t get cold.

What a pointless series of tasks for a creature that shouldn’t exist.

Sometime in the fifth day after Maxson spared him, it comes to him that she needs to go back. If she returns to the Prydwen and continues their mission, maybe he can find some measure of relief. He’s already promised her he won’t off himself the moment he’s out of her sight, and he has no intention of going back on that; he may not be much of a man, but he’ll be nothing at all if his word is meaningless.

Despite what she said, he finally raises his head and fixes her with a dull gaze and speaks for the first time in days. His voice is rusty with disuse and he has to clear his throat a couple times before anything comes out.

“You have to go back.”

O’Sullivan’s face, as usual, is unreadable. She arches one eyebrow at him, but there’s no smile to it; her eyes don’t crease at the corner, her lips stay flat. There’s something in her expression that speaks of insubordination, although if they’re not Brotherhood anymore, he supposes he’s no longer her superior.

“I’m afraid that’s not an option. You heard him – I’m dead, too.”

“Still,” Danse begins again. He swallows roughly, sets aside the box of Dandy Boy apples he’s been methodically making his way through. “You have to continue the mission.”

What’s funny – or would be, if anything can ever be funny again, which it can’t – is that this is when she finally changes expression. It’s like a cloud crosses her face, although that’s impossible down here in the bunker. Her eyebrows knit together, her eyes narrow.

“I won’t be doing that.”

“But –“

“Danse,” her voice is gentle, but firm. “No. I’m with the Railroad now.”

For the first time, he’s shocked into silence. She hasn’t left his side since she got here, not for longer than five or ten minutes, so she hasn’t had time to join up with them since she found out about what he is – which means –

The revelation stings.

“For how long?”

O’Sullivan shifts uncomfortably in the decrepit desk chair she’d pulled over from the office in the corner. Her eyes drop to the floor, and Danse’s heart begins hammering in his chest.

“For _how long?_ ” He repeats. There’s anger in his voice now, and no surprise – he’d thought she was his sister in arms, more than a friend. He’d thought she was _family._

“Since before I joined up.” O’Sullivan looks back up at him and sets her chin in a way that makes Danse realize she’s trying not to cry. “I couldn’t – synths – you – are _people,_ Danse.”

He’s spent the last week trying to come to terms with the fact that he does, in fact, feel human, but even with that inside him, it’s still not easy to counteract a decade of teaching within the Brotherhood. The very idea makes his skin crawl, despite the fact that it’s synthetic skin, despite everything he told Maxson. It feels _wrong._

Danse swallows again, trying to get rid of the lump in his throat. Why is this so hard?

“Then you absolutely need to go back,” he repeats evenly, not breaking eye contact. Her mission may not be his, but with everything she’s done for him, she’s still his sister.

Sometimes the only thing to do is to overlook betrayal.

O’Sullivan tilts her head like a puppy, clearly trying to understand this swerve in his thoughts, and he wonders briefly at his own motivations. He wants to keep her alive, he thinks. And with this latest insult to Brotherhood – to Maxson himself – he needs to focus on helping her stay safe.

If she’s with the Railroad, she’ll need to know what the Brotherhood is up to.

So he answers her unspoken question.

“Maxson – Arthur – he’s not going to let this go so easily. He may not come back for me, but you can bet he’s going to hunt them down.”

She nods, lifts her hands to her face, and rubs the heels of her palms against her eyes. She looks so tired, he realizes, and he wonders idly what toll this last week has taken on her. He’s barely seen her sleep, she picks at her food, and seems to spend all her time watching him to make sure he doesn’t stick his tongue in an outlet when he’s unsupervised.

Danse doesn’t know what to do to prove to her that he’ll be okay, that he just needs time to grieve, so he gets up, joints screaming at him after so much inactivity, and walks over to her. He kneels next to chair, his knee bumping awkwardly against one of the wheels on the bottom of it, and takes her hands in his own. Hers are cold, so cold the fingertips are blue under the nail, and so tiny his own hands dwarf them.

O’Sullivan jumps at the touch; he’s never been like this before, and he knows that, but part of him hopes that the unusual behavior will demonstrate how serious he is. A tiny, cruel voice in his head that sounds a bit like Arthur tells him it’s because he’s a synth, an abomination, and that she can’t stand the way his skin feels, but he stuffs it down.

“Tell him you made a mistake, that you’ve put me down.” Danse swallows again at the thought of what he’s asking her to do. “That you’ve realized the Brotherhood is the only right way to free the Commonwealth.”

“He’s never going to believe me,” she says, her voice impossibly small. She speaks so quietly he almost can’t hear her over the slow drip-drip-drip of water in the cavern at the far end of the bunker.

“Then we’ll just have to give him some sort of proof, won’t we?”

 

* * *

 

For the better part of a week, Maxson is drunk. He hides in his quarters as much as he can, sending one of the squires out to the mess hall when he requires more liquor or a bowl of noodles to settle his roiling stomach. The boys avoid him as much as they can the rest of the time, and he knows it’s as much because of the stench of alcohol oozing from his skin as it is because of his foul temper.

He just can’t believe he trusted that thing, that he _ever_ thought –

The image of Danse pressed against him, the fantasy of his hard body and soft lips bubbles to the top of his mind, and Maxson takes a long pull from the bottle of whiskey in his hand and winces. He shakes his head, partly from the taste and partly to try to banish the image, but it’s indelible; he wonders if he’ll ever be free from this idea.

It’s the synth’s fault, he’s sure. The… _creature_ must have been teasing him longer than he knew, trying to set this up to get higher into the Brotherhood’s power structure, to sabotage them from within.

There’s a knock at the door, the metal clanging loudly behind him, and Maxson lets out a low curse. The clanging stops and the door swings open. One of the squires stands there, practically shaking – not good form for a Brotherhood knight, this one’ll have to be a scribe with that attitude – and takes one step inside.

He can only imagine how he must look – disheveled from days of endless drinking, unwashed and scruffy since he hasn’t trimmed his beard – but the boy’s attitude does nothing to quell Maxson’s temper.

“What is it?” His voice is a growl, even to him, and something about that makes him even angrier.

“It’s – it’s Knight O’Sullivan,” the boy squeaks, and Maxson realizes it’s a girl, not a boy. Figures. “She’s not dead after all. She’s _back._ ”

Well, isn’t that just the fucking best.  Here he’s gone telling a tale about how Danse and that woman went down in a blaze of glory and now she’s here? It’s enough to make his teeth hurt.

He tries to manufacture a look of surprise, but only succeeds in baring his teeth.

“How nice,” he grumbles, though it’s clear to both of them that he doesn’t think so. “Tell her to await my arrival on the command deck.” The squire lets out a nervous chirp and disappears around the corner, the door swinging shut behind her; the slam of it into the metal wall reverberates in a way that makes Maxson’s head ache.

Grumbling, he stands from the small table in his quarters, dizzy at the sudden movement and knocking over empty bottles that clatter to the floor. He frowns at them and heads to the shower, where he stands for far too long under the hot water; if he was anyone but the Elder, the heated water would have run out a good ten minutes before he climbed out, but as it is he finally decides he’s been in there long enough and gets out.

So he’s clean and smelling of soap but still almost too drunk to stand when he finally makes his way to the command deck. O’Sullivan stands silhouetted against the rising sun. In spite of her size, she cuts an imposing figure, arms clasped behind her back, standing straight and looking into the tangerine sky.

_If she’d only done as I asked, she would have made an excellent Sentinel._

“Yes?” He doesn’t address her as Knight; she’s given up that post and with it his courtesy. She’s damn lucky he didn’t have her launched off the ship the moment he heard she’d arrived.

“Elder Maxson,” she turns. There’s a long scratch on one side of her face; it’s superficial but goes from temple to chin and hasn’t yet healed. It glows red in the early daylight. He resists the urge to scrub at his eyes. Has he ever been this exhausted before?

He walks towards her and she defers, dancing away from the window to grant him his customary place. Something about this action sours him further; it’s not as if he needs some wastelander to give him his own place on his own ship.  He curls his lip at her, but her face is apologetic, even sad.

“I want to apologize,” she says, shifting her feet to resume ramrod military posture. Despite himself, Maxson feels a flicker of pride at the way she’s conducting herself.

He wonders if Danse would have felt the same.

“For what?” It’s not a kind question. He wants her to lay out every single misdeed she’s made since she first set foot in the Cambridge Police Station, and from the look of contrition on her face, she knows it.

“For doubting you, sir. For begging for the life of the abomination known as Danse. For questioning the code and ideals of the Brotherhood.” She doesn’t look away, keeping his gaze. Her chin is steady. “For letting you down, sir.”

Maxson stares at her, trying to decide whether he believes her or not. He doesn’t know her well enough to truly decide, but Danse trusts her – then again, Danse is a synth –

The thoughts circle in his head until he’s dizzy and he finally snaps. When he speaks his voice is low – he doesn’t want any busy-bodies on the ship to hear what he has to say – but firm. There’s a hatefulness to it that he’s particularly proud of.

“There is no place for you here until the abomination is dealt with,” he tells her. She doesn’t flinch.

No, she doesn’t flinch; instead she turns on her heel, a sharply precise movement, and walks over to the bench against one wall. A bag sits there, and she carries it over and hands it to him.

“What is this?” It’s too fucking early for this.

“Pala – Danse’s uniform,” she corrects herself. Maxson opens the bag and looks inside. The metallic scent of blood wafts out of the plastic sack and he has to fight to keep from gagging. Indeed, inside is a men’s large uniform, orange and gray, soaked in blood and riddles with bullet holes.

It’s like a stab in the heart, the way it feels to look at the shredded contents of the sack. There’s a physical reaction, although it’s not just the booze coursing through his body; the idea of Danse lying dead on the ground outside the Listening Post flashes through his mind and the visual that goes along with it is brutal, terrifying.

He’ll have to get the blood analyzed to be sure; Cade can handle that. He closes the bag hastily and sees O’Sullivan staring at him, though her face is void of expression. She looks almost…bored.

The hand holding the bag drops to his side and he stiffens his back, trying to keep himself from losing it. He’d thought Danse would be dead before, but to have _irrefutable_ proof of such a thing – the _despair_ rises up in him before he can talk it out of happening – and Maxson closes his eyes. The sunlight hurts even so, and when he finally feels in control of himself he knows it’s been at least a minute or maybe two.

Far too long to hide how he’s really feeling, but no matter. He doesn’t need to explain himself to a Knight. She doesn’t even need to be a Knight if he wants her gone; if he orders it, the guards will toss her over the side rail.

O’Sullivan might have survived nuclear war and two hundred years, but Maxson’s willing to bet falling several hundred feet in the bay would be enough to kill her. It’d be a fitting end to the woman who killed the only man –

Now that isn’t fair, is it? He ordered the execution. He has to remember that.

“Well, Knight,” he begins stiffly, and she turns her attention back from the large windows to him. He doesn’t trust her, but if he doesn’t allow her to return to the Prydwen he’ll have to have a good reason why and the hangover knocking at his skull is not helping his critical thinking skills.

Besides, he can always toss her over himself later if she becomes a problem.

“Sir?” Her eyes are wide, trusting even. He tries to memorize the shape of them, of her face. _This is the woman who killed Danse,_ he thinks.

_She did what I couldn’t._

“You and I both know what you did. But –“ He softens his tone a bit. “You did the right thing in the end.”

Right thing, wrong thing, who gives a fuck? He’ll never see Danse again and he’s still not sure how he feels about that. Most of him is grimly overjoyed but there’s that dim traitorous part of him that rails against this new reality.

“I did, sir. I only regret it took me so long to execute your orders.”

Execute? She would use that word.

“I think a promotion is in order,” he continues. “You may have Danse’s quarters and any items he left behind. Paladin,” he addresses her, and she gives him a stiff salute, one fist over her heart. He can’t decide if he believes her or not.

Does it matter?

“Any further orders, sir?”

“Report to Lancer-Captain Kells,” he says, turning away from her and trying not to wince as the bright sunlight hits his eyes. Far below them, the Commonwealth looks like toys left by a destructive child, blocks knocked over and waiting for Mama to come clean up.

“Yes, sir.” Paladin O’Sullivan leaves on quiet feet, and Maxson can feel himself collapse inwards, deflating like a popped kickball. Across the room, the bag with Danse’s uniform in it is open; he can smell the blood like copper even from the window. It tickles his nose, burns his throat; he coughs and there’s the feeling of bile rising up in him again.

Hands on the rail, Elder Maxson surveys the ground below. Somewhere down there is Danse’s body – not corpse, a synth can’t be a corpse – and further below, according to their intel, is the Institute. He has to keep his eyes on the goal, and so that’s what he does. Same as he always has. Above the rest, he has no time for regrets.


End file.
